


lungs

by Lulu_The_Real_Slytherpuff



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Can be read as a Maylor fic i guess, Character Study, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Introspection, Roger's not in the best place, Smoking, bad habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:43:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lulu_The_Real_Slytherpuff/pseuds/Lulu_The_Real_Slytherpuff
Summary: It takes a few flicks of his lighter to get a spark out - a testament to how much he’s been gnawing at the sweet nicotine these past months - and finally the cig takes light and he inhales the bitter air right down to the back of his lungs.





	lungs

**Author's Note:**

> Based off Ben Hardy's portrayal of Roger Taylor in Bohemian Rhapsody rather than Roger Taylor himself. 
> 
> This is my first work in the Queen/BoRhap fandom so I really hope you all enjoy :)
> 
> This work does contain references to alcoholism and domestic violence, if this is triggering to you then please don't read - your health is so much more important than a short story written at 1am. 
> 
> *Not Beta Read

 

_ “Sometimes the mask drops and the cave walls come crumbling down, and it’s all Roger can do to stop the tears from falling.” _

  
  


_ Your lungs will be as black as tar if you keep that up.  _ That’s what Roger’s mother would always say to him every time he pulled a pack out in front of her. It’s what she said to his father, and grandfather when they would do the same, all three of them puffing on the damn things while she shook her head and muttered about the yellow stain on the ceiling. He can hear her voice in his head now as he pulls a pack of  _ Richmond's _ out of his shirt pocket and picks out the first cig in the packet. 

 

It takes a few flicks of his lighter to get a spark out - a testament to how much he’s been gnawing at the sweet nicotine these past months - and finally the cig takes light and he inhales the bitter air right down to the back of his lungs.

 

_ Relief. _

 

The noise from inside this weeks gig - a student pub in Wigan of all places - is muffled but loud enough that Roger can hear the distinct tune of  _ Sweet Caroline  _ over the top of the patrons noisy chatter.

 

“You right mate?” Brian’s voice echoes from behind him, and Roger turns to see the curly haired man watching him with concern lacing his eyes. 

 

“Yeah yeah, I’m fine.” Roger replies, taking another long drag from the cig. 

 

“Good crowd tonight.”

 

“Enthusiastic, that’s for sure. I couldn’t understand a bloody word they said!”

 

Brian lets out a laugh. “That’s northerners for you.”

 

Roger smiles but makes no effort to reply, he’d come outside for some peace and hopefully Brian would get the message. Thankfully, the taller man seems to understand that and gently pats Roger on the back before heading back inside the pub. 

 

“Boys are going to be heading out in twenty.” Brian shouts out before he disappears through the wooden doors and Roger is left to his own thoughts once more. 

 

He takes another puff of the cig, relishes in the bitter before flicking it to the ground and stomping the light out. Twenty minutes, Brian had said. Twenty minutes where Roger could either go back inside the pub and down another scotch or two, or twenty minutes outside in the cold. He sighs and pulls another cig out, might as well make the most of the quiet before the rest of the boys join him. 

  
  


*****

 

_ One day you’ll drink so much you won’t wake up, Rog.  _ He remembers Clare slamming a mug full of coffee down on his nightstand next to two Paracetamol and plopping herself down on the edge of his bed. His head felt like someone was slamming a hammer into it repeatedly and the light burning his eyes. Beer bottles littered his room like an army. 

 

He’s reminded of that moment now, as he slams another shot of Tequila down his throat - he’s moved onto more ‘sophisticated’ drinks since his days as a broke eighteen-year-old. Yet the alcohol still has the same effect, a numbness that spreads throughout his body like a wildfire and makes the hollow hole in his chest close for the four hours he sits at the bar. 

 

“Double shot, thanks love.” Roger says to the bartender as she passes by, cradling a broken glass in her hand. The bartender rolls her eyes and huffs as she deposits the glass in the bin and fills up two fresh shots for him to down. 

 

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asks him as she pushes the glasses towards him. She’s quite pretty up close, Roger observes. She’s got hair that distinctly reminds Roger of Farrah Fawcett in  _ Logan’s Run,  _ and big blue eyes that are crusted with black mascara around the edges. Her nails are bitten short and Roger notices the callouses on her fingertips - instantly recognisable seeing as Brian and John sport the same ones. 

 

“Guitar?” Roger opts for a swift change in conversation and nods his head at the bartender’s fingers. 

 

“Violin, actually. Are you a musician too?”

 

Roger whistles. “Nice. I’m a drummer myself. You in a band or just play for fun?”

 

Something flickers across her face and she clicks her tongue together, rolls her shoulders back and sighs. “Auditioned for the  _ London Symphony Orchestra.  _ Haven’t heard back yet.”

 

He nods, the waiting was always the worst part about being a musician. The bartender, whose name Roger still hasn’t got yet, pushes the two shots closer to him and he sighs, downing them both one after the other. The effect is instantaneous and he looks back up to see she’s moved onto the next customer - a pint of Carling, how boring.

In the morning Roger will wake up as the clock strikes eleven and Freddie Fucking Mercury is banging on his door and telling him to  _ wake the fuck up.   _ There’s no steaming mug full of shit coffee on his night stand, nor a packet of Paracetamol in sight. There’s no Clare giving him shit for drinking either, instead there’s a hundred-and-six miles between them. 

 

Regret might pool in his stomach now as he heaves over a stained toilet bowl but Roger knows he’ll be back in another seedy bar by the time night falls.

 

*****

 

_ You’d rather punish yourself through practice than face your problems.  _ His father is right. Not that Roger would ever admit that out loud. A night of regret was always rewarded with hours of drumming until the beat was right and his fingers bled red all over the skins. Roger would hold his hands up to his face and watch with morbid fascination as the skin peeled back, rubbed raw from the friction of the drumsticks, and leaked the red down his wrist like crimson ribbons. 

 

He would hiss and salty tears would make tracks down his cheeks as he forced his raw fingers to take ahold of the sticks and bang out the beat again. 

 

_ At least I take my anger out on a drum set and not on my own family.  _ His father had slapped him hard that day. The loud  _ smack  _ resonating around the room, and his dad breathing heavily in his face, beefy hand ready to strike once more. Roger’s face had been black and blue that week and the drum skins stained red.

 

By the time Roger was old enough to move away to college, his fingers were almost permanently red raw and his father a indistinguishable silhouette in the rearview mirror of his  _ ‘65 Vauxhall Viva _ . 

  
  


*

Sometimes the mask drops and the cave walls come crumbling down, and it’s all Roger can do to stop the tears from falling. Salty tears pour from his eyes as he clings onto Brian’s shirt and holds on to the older man as though Brian would disappear if Roger let go. 

 

_ If you keep this up you’ll be gone before you’ve even lived, Rog.  _ Tequila stained his shirt and stung the back of his throat everytime he went to take a breath. 

 

_ He rang, Brian. My Dad rang me after all these years.  _ His hand shaking as it loosely held a smoking cig to his lips and he drew deep breaths, trying to take in the relief the cig provided.

 

_ He hates me, Bri. And I hate him, I  _ loathe  _ him. And I hate that in everything I do I still try to find his approval.  _ Hands grip his body as he collapses onto the floor, and the cig is pulled from his lips, the tequila stained shirt pulled from his body, and Brian pulls a thick doona over them both. 

 

_ You are perfect, Roger Taylor. You don’t need his approval or anyone else’s, and I am so proud of who you are and what you have achieved. _

 

In the morning Roger will wake up with Brian’s long arms snaked around him and his face sticky with the dried tears of last night. He’ll feel so much love and adoration at the small smile that lingers on Brian’s sleeping face, and then he’ll untangle himself from the doona, and wince at the headache before he steps onto the balcony. He’ll see the open packet of cigs and his hand will hover over them, he’ll finger the tops of the cigs before turning to see Brian’s sleeping form inside, and then he’ll sigh and throw the pack over the balcony edge.

 

_ No more black tar.  _

_ No more drinking to never wake up.  _

_ No more raw skin. _

 

For the first time in years, Roger breathes in the fresh air around him, and doesn’t feel like he is suffocating. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive critiscism is always welcome and greatly appreciated. 
> 
> As is every kudos and comment, so please say hi :)
> 
> I also take prompts so if you have an requests you can hit me up on tumblr (@hit-em-with-the-fourr).
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


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